


Damned

by RacheIDuncan



Series: Survivor [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:45:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3459590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RacheIDuncan/pseuds/RacheIDuncan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of 'Survivor'</p>
<p>In which Jarvis doesn't knock and Peggy has a penchant for books and women. She also can't cook for the life of her.</p>
<p>Little more insight into Angie's time there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damned

Daniel Sousa straightens out his jacket. He pushes his tie up right at the apex of his collar and shifts on his crutch. Looking around, he feels that uncomfortable sensation of being really quite out of place in the Upper East Side. There’s cars, richer than his own apartment, parked on the curb. The men and women, they wear their money in pearls and jackets. They look at him, oddly, and does only what he can and nods at them with a thin lipped smile. Forced.

He has to look at the address scrawled on his hand twice just to make sure.

Carter can’t be living here, surely.

Of course, there’s a Stark Industries truck parked right by and Howard Stark is Carter’s...acquaintance. But the notion that a woman could be living here on her own? Even with Howard Stark’s money? Well, that’s just ridiculous. Thompson won’t believe him, not at all.

Sighing, looking around again, Sousa raises his fist to the door. Number Eight. And he knocks.

It’s not hardly a second before it swings open and, “You’re late,” is thrown at him.

Mr Jarvis, he’s leaning out of the door and his expression shifts when his eyes fall on Sousa, stumbles out, “Agent Sousa...I thought you were Beatrice, she, um, she’s rather late delivering the flowers this morning -- I’ll have to have Miss Carter phone her when she wakes up.” He’s uncomfortable, anxious almost, Sousa can tell. Mr Jarvis is the type of man who loves outloud and unabashedly, Sousa had learned. He doesn’t do well at hiding emotions, not really.

“Can I enquire as to why you’re here, Agent Sousa?”

Sousa leans forward slightly on his crutch, tries to get a further look into the house. All he sees, other than the vast burgundy walls lined with expensive art, is a coat hanger with far too many coats for one woman. Carter didn’t strike him as that material really; she was a war dame, Sousa assumed that she could live out of a tiny box and be content. Nothing here makes sense, it doesn’t add up. There’s the very idea, of course, that Sousa simply misunderstood his readings of Carter; probably a much more complex, much more feminine gal than he gives her credit for. “I was just wantin’ to talk to Carter, see how she’s been since…”

Her retirement from the SSR was premature, Sousa knows it'll only be a small time before she comes back. Carter can’t live without that adrenaline, but she needed a break, he gets that. With Thompson in charge now, Sousa only wished he’d taken a leave as well.

But he misses her. Yes, he thought that maybe there was the option there of something a little more than colleagues, more than friendship if he was stretching. Even so, even though she never did follow up on that ‘another time’, that doesn't mean he doesn’t miss her around the office. She was a reassuring presence, sitting behind him and going through case files though no one would listen to her anyway. Maybe it was her femininity, maybe it was her strength.

Does he want Carter to be a wife? No, that’s not what she is, that’s not what draws him to her. But does he want Carter to be one of ‘The Guys’? No, because he still wants to kiss her.

He supposes he’ll get over it one day, there’s this dame -- works at the coffee shop by his apartment building -- maybe he’ll get round to it. “It’s not usual that Miss Carter sleeps in this late,” Mr Jarvis is saying. It’s ten am. “I’ll wake her, please, Agent Sousa, do come in. The kitchen is through there and then left, I’ll be there to make you tea shortly.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Sousa says, starts backing away.

Mr Jarvis shakes his head, “You wouldn’t, I’m sure Miss Carter will be thrilled to catch up. Come in, come in.”

So Sousa sighs again, takes another quick look around at all the wealth and richness, then walks inside.

/ /

"Mm, good mornin'."

Angie's voice, raw, tired, tattered, is the first thing Peggy hears when she wakes up. What she felt, was fingers ghosting across her hips, up her torso, over her breasts, then back down again. Little lips touching her shoulder, her collarbone.

What she feels is Angie. Alive. Safe.

Peggy's dreams had been scattered through the night. Her mind reeled with what she now knew and it played on her thoughts, warped her dreams. First Angie was dead. Then Angie was still a living skeleton. And then she, herself, was the one pointing the gun at Angie, she was the one cracking the chain and stabbing her with needles. (Needless to say, after that one Peggy woke up and held Angie so close.)

(They should have found the camps sooner.)

(They should have liberated them sooner.)

The cold hard truth of everything is that while Angie was in Hell for doing nothing wrong, Peggy was searching for Heaven in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. If Hell can exist and Heaven can't, if the Devil can exist and God can't, Vicars are the biggest liars on Earth and Church has no real value.

Peggy knows she's a sinner but she can't seem to care.

"Did you sleep well?" Is what she asks and Angie presses closer to her. Peggy can't help but look down and brush some of the hair out of her face, too beautiful to be covered, too pure.

Of course, Angie's not pure. No, that pure innocence was ripped away from her, starved out of her. Beaten out of her.

Peggy could kill someone. She wishes she could have mowed down more of those HYDRA lackwhits during Steve's last hurrah. She wishes she could have taken that machine gun to anyone who even so much as looked at Angie the wrong way.

What she feels like is feral and what she wants to do is hunt.

She won't, obviously. That rational, logical side of her is too loud about this, too blaring. It tells her that she wouldn't be any better than them, that she has too much good in her, that her humanity is too strong that she'd only wallow in regret later. Lord knows she only lets herself scar because it's her retribution for all the lives she's taken; without the excuse of 'imminent world protection' her conscious wouldn't let it stop at scars.

"First time I haven't had nightmares in years, you're a real scarecrow, English."

But it's Angie. This tiny ball of Italian American feistiness that somehow managed to claw her way inside of Peggy's heart and make a nest there.

"Stop it."

Peggy breaks from her thoughts to focus back on Angie, she's looking at her now with this near playfulness about her eyes.

"Stop what?"

Angie shifts until she positioned over Peggy, leaning on her arm, watching her, "You're thinkin' about me in that place, stop it."

Her grandmother's crucifix burns against her neck.

Peggy looks up, rolls her lip between her teeth before saying, "Actually I'm thinking about the different forms of torture I've picked up over the years and I'm trying to decipher which one would be best for if I ever happened to run into one of those war criminals who mistreated you."

"Torture? Here's me thinkin' you woulda just taken 'em down with your trusty machine gun."

"Jeremy got lost a few months back, I do believe that Dottie Underwood may have taken him when she went rooting through my things. Tragic really, we had some times Jeremy and I."

"I still can't believe you name your weapons, English," Angie's grinning and it could be the most beautiful piece of art that Peggy has ever seen. "You're one hell of a girl."

Angie kisses her.

"I can't believe I get to call you mine," She says and her eyes go wide at Peggy's silence. "I'm sorry, Peg, I didn't wanna just assume but here you are touchin' me and bein' all sweet and---"

That's when Peggy flips them. She holds Angie's arms and rolls her over, letting herself lean over her.

"Angie?"

"Yeah?"

She's too busy staring at her chest. Peggy hadn't been overly concerned when she felt her breasts tumble out of her sleep shirt. And with that look on Angie's face, she isn't in any rush to cover back up either.

"I rather think you talk too much."

And Peggy kisses her.

Angie’s hands find her breasts almost too quickly and Peggy can’t help that smirk tug at her lips as she kisses across Angie’s cheek and down her neck. Her own hands are gripping at Angie’s waist now, tugging open the robe as she continues to kiss down Angie’s body.

If this is wrong then Peggy doesn’t ever want to be right.

If this is sinning then there’s no doubt that Peggy’s an atheist now.

When Peggy starts going lower and lower, Angie’s hands are tugging at her hair, pulling her right back up. Peggy, she kisses her and then raises an eyebrow. Angie flushes, embarrassed, naive, and mumbles, “I like you up here, I like touching these…” And Angie’s massaging her breasts again.

Peggy bites back another smirk and grinds her hips down against Angie’s, throws her head back at Angie’s fingers on her chest.

And then everything happens.

1\. “Good morning, Miss Carter, I do believe---Oh. Oh! Oh, I...Oh!”

2\. “Jarvis?!”

3\. “Aw crap!”

4\. Jarvis slams the door behind him.

5\. Peggy falls off the bed.

6.Angie panics.

Peggy, in all her years and years of military life had never once been snuck up in such a...state of undress. She’d been intimate with others sure -- the dancers at Steve’s productions were always excellent at relieving stresses, and of course there’d been men and women in alleyways in London before that; (she’d never claimed to be a saint.) -- but never had she been so caught up in another person that all her senses were clouded. With the others, especially the women, she’d been on high alert so much so that the clink of a stray dogs claws on the cobbles would have her pulling away and checking.

But now all she heard, saw, and felt was ‘Angie, Angie, Angie’.

And now Angie’s curling up into herself, rocking. Angie’s panicking and all Peggy can do is fix her sleep shirt, grab her robe and glide over to the door. Jarvis, bless his soul, is outside. He’s in a state of shock, Peggy figures, with his wide, wide eyes that keep blinking as he tries to stumbles some words out of his mouth.

“Mr Jarvis?”

She touches his shoulder and he snaps his head to her. And then shrugs her hand away.

“I, um, I do apologise profusely for--...I didn’t mean to interrupt--...I’m very much going to be to repressing the image of yours and Miss Martinelli’s breasts from my memory, I hope you know.”

Peggy snorts at that.

“Mr Jarvis, please, calm down.”

“Believe me when I say that I didn’t mean to find you in such a--...in such a state, I merely came to wake you and tell you that Agent Sousa is here, I didn’t think that you and Miss Martinelli---”

“Sousa?”

And Peggy tightens her jaw. In fact, she feels all of the muscles in her body tighten.

“Look, Miss Carter, forgive me, but you and I both know that since your...retirement at the SSR, you’ve been,” Jarvis licks his lips in thought, considering his next words. Peggy, she raises an eyebrow as he does this. “You’ve been searching for that adrenaline in other places -- you need it to survive. You’re a Great White Shark if anything.”

Peggy has to step back. She inhales sharply, “Mr Jarvis, I don’t think that---”

“Of course, I’m not referring to your, um, relationship with Miss Martinelli as an, what’s the proper phrase?”

“Adrenaline fuelled fling?”

Jarvis sighs, “No. It’s nothing like that, is it?”

There are only so many people in the world that Peggy believes she can trust entirely. In fact, there are only so many people in the world that know Peggy entirely. It’s all very well and good Thompson and the wankers over at the SSR saying that they understand why she acted the way she did, but they just don’t get it. They’re too quick to label her. An unrespected dame. A suffragette. But the thing that Peggy has found, is that you can’t pin her down. And there’s only a handful, less in fact, that haven’t even tried.

She knows that Steve had her as a different kind of gal than the one’s he was used to getting turned down by in Brooklyn, but he gave her room to intimidate as well.

She knows that Howard thinks of her as his sister but he doesn’t protect her, she doesn’t need it. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t hold her for days after Steve died.

She knows that Angie figures her as a prissy British heroine but she lets her cry, lets her kiss her.

She knows that Jarvis believes she’s a strong, strong woman who wants to save the world, but he makes sure she’s not holding it up on her own.

So Peggy says, “No, no, it’s nothing like that. I do think I may fancy her quite a bit.”

Jarvis smiles so softly, “You deserve love, Miss Carter, I’m happy for you.”

“It’s not an issue for you...that she’s---”

“Miss Carter, people have killed each other,” Jarvis interrupts and he’s so sincere in the way he speaks that Peggy could tear. She won’t. She could never. “People have taken guns to the heads of others because it was what they believed to be right. It’s obvious that this time, this society, has a very warped idea of what is right and what is wrong.”

Peggy leans against the door, thinks about Angie kisses and the tattoo on her arm. Jarvis isn’t incorrect, far from it. Peggy knows that this society believes both of those are wrong. The extermination of a type of person is as wrong as the taste of Angie’s lips and if that isn’t just damn twisted, Peggy doesn’t know what is.

“Regardless, what you and Miss Martinelli have, however young it may be, is what I know to be the only untarnished thing,” Jarvis continues, fiddles with his wedding ring. “The love of another person is worth Heaven and Earth -- the feeling of holding someone you love and who equally loves you, well Miss Carter, it’s the only thing that drowns out the sound of gunfire, isn’t it?”

Before she realises it, Peggy is walking forward and hugging him close. It’s more familiar now than it was before; Jarvis isn’t quite simply her assistant in a case, he’s her friend. And Peggy’s never really had a lot of them.

You see, when she was younger, she loved a lot of people. But they all left her. Her mother died of Spanish Influenza and her father died of cut wrists days later. Her grandmother died whilst Peggy was out at war, old age. Her brother, well, she hadn’t seen him since her parents’ funeral. Then there was Steve, Colleen. Peggy had a lot of love left to give, but no one to give it to.

Until now.

With one final squeeze, she lets go of Jarvis and grins fondly at him, “Yes, well, alright,” She says. “Let me just get properly dressed, tell Agent Sousa that I’ll be right with him.”

“Very well, Miss Carter. And, please, apologise to Miss Martinelli for me.”

/ /

“Miss Carter apologises for the wait, Agent Sousa, she says she’s be down in a short moment.”

Sousa’s found himself sitting at the breakfast bar of this entirely too large kitchen. He’d spent the last ten or so minutes flicking through yesterday’s newspaper -- one that Carter had probably left out. Refraining from snooping on fear of a snapped ligament in his working leg, Sousa had settled to observing the kitchen. It was grand, boy it was grand. Tiling that cost more than everything Sousa had ever owned. He couldn’t see inside the pantry but he just knows it was booming with far more food than Carter could ever eat to herself. Maybe she entertains house guests, after all, Sousa admits that he knows the bare minimum of Carter’s personal life, she could have hundreds of friends for all he’s aware. She could never be alone.

Still, he thinks, that seems ludicrous.

There’s a stack of unopened mail next to this newspaper, but Sousa doesn’t even try to flick through it. (Carter’d probably descend from the ceiling and slit his throat.) It does make him wonder though, about what’s left to find out about Carter, even in an entirely friend-like situation, even just as coworkers.

He just really misses her.

“Tea?”

Sousa snaps his head to Jarvis, “Oh, uh, coffee, please, if Carter has it here.”

“Of course, I have it -- seven different kinds actually. Do you have a preference for the origin of your beans?”

And Peggy Carter in all her glory comes gliding into the room. Her curls are pulled up in a way that Sousa’s never seen before and she manages to look so intimidating yet graceful in a simple shirt and skirt.

He could be in love with her and he’d be terrified by her.

“Oh but, Peg, you can’t go givin’ him any old beans,” There’s another voice coming through the door. Chipper. Naive. “You don’t know what you’re doin’, let me take care of it. You make a start on the eggs.”

It’s Miss Martinelli, the little waitress wannabe starlet, who cried about her grandmother.

Sousa smirks and shakes his head.

Of course she was stashing her.

/ /

Peggy’s an expert in many things. From American gun maintenance to Japanese fighting strategies. From how to perfectly throw a shuriken and how to tie up a knot so good that a Russian couldn’t even get out of it.

Cooking? No.

Thankfully, Jarvis notices the way that her face shifts from contentment to panic when Angie starts talking about making eggs. The last time she’d tried, she’d had to call him up and ask him exactly what the best method was for getting charred egg off of a pan. He’d bought her a new one. So he swoops in and says something about how impolite it would be and starts scrambling for her.

Peggy could kiss him sometimes.

“Looks like you’ve been good, Carter,” Sousa says and Peggy finally acknowledges him.

It’s not that she doesn’t like him, he just...He reminds her of oppression and that feeling of being without a purpose. He screams good intentions but Peggy can’t trust him, she can’t feel comfortable around him. Not since he thought her a terrorist.

He’s giving her this charming and Angie’s kisses burn on her neck, so all Peggy can do really is say, “Quite. And you, Agent Sousa?”

“Survivin’,” He says flatly. Peggy watches as he inhales sharply and then he says, “It’s been different in the office without you around, Carter. Feels wrong.”

Peggy smirks, “Ah yes, it must truly horrific to go days without anyone to send for your lunch. I believe it must be terrible to have to go and get it for yourself.”

Before Sousa can reply, Angie breezes past her and places a steaming cup of coffee down in front of him and says something about ‘Columbia’s best’. Peggy, her hands concealed by the breakfast counter, she brushes her fingers against Angie’s thigh and smiles lightly when Angie clears her throat and says something about tea for the British.

It’s not until Peggy has a cup in her hands and she’s taking a long sip of tea, (Angie always does make it so wonderfully), does Sousa say anything, “Are you ever gonna come back, Carter? You know we need you back there.”

Peggy purses her lips and swallows, “Perhaps. One day. I have a couple of projects I’m working on at the moment that are just far too time consuming; maybe after they’re finished. Oh, Angie, could you be a darling and pass some more sugar, please?”

“Sure, English.”

Sousa blinks at her, “What kinda projects? Huntin’ down all the war criminals that the FBI can’t find?” Peggy doesn’t say anything. Instead, she watches Angie place the sugar down on the counter. She hides her smile behind her mug and catches Sousa’s expression shift as Angie turns around.

Suddenly, Sousa stands up, practically tumbles over trying to grab at his crutch.

“Will you be staying for breakfast, Agent Sousa?” Jarvis asks, whisking.

He’s shaking, shivering. Peggy’s never seen a man look so unsettled.

“No,” He says, nearly cries. “No, I...I gotta go, I--...I’ll see you around, Peg.”

/ /

“So what did the meathead want?”

It’s much later in the day now and they’d accomplished absolutely nothing. After a rather late breakfast, prepared and served by Jarvis whilst Angie cackled at Peggy’s complete and utter lack of domestic capabilities, they’d settled into the drawing room and hardly moved all day. Angie had padded off into the kitchen a few times to snag some fruit and top up their beverages, and Peggy had climbed her way up to the library. No, not the one with the impressive list of first editions, the one that resided in the attic above the attic where Howard stored all of the...unusual literature. Most of the titles had come from a list that Peggy had created and thrust at him to buy, but there were quite a few he’d attained, apparently, that Peggy had never heard of before.

The information bound in the confines of the books is perhaps, Peggy considers as she runs her fingers over mangled spines, more dangerous than that of Howard’s creations. That was a feat in itself.

But stories of creatures stronger than anything the Earth could know and rituals used for conjuring them to life; as well as, scientific formulae for the breakdown of human genetics and their mutation. (Peggy assumes Howard must have stolen from a Death Camp scientist -- science like this didn’t exist before their experiments.) (She seethes when she thinks about what they could have done to Angie) Well, having these books exist, that seems quite perilous.

Working for the Strategic Scientific Reserve had been all fine and dandy for some small fraction of it; yet those men there, they’re not prepared for all of this. Conspiracy. Truth. After everything that happened with Red Skull and Project Rebirth, even the mad Russian Doctor, they were still insisted on what they know to be true being at the core of everything.

There’s no such thing as advanced science.

There’s no such thing as mutants.

There’s no such thing as truth.

So Peggy immerses herself in this information: over the past few she weeks she’s become an expert in the mythology of Thor and Loki, she’s training herself in genetic mutation and what exactly that could mean for the future.

(It causes her to have some questions about whether her penchant for women and violence is some brand of genetic mutation.)

(She enjoys it, sure, the feel of another woman beneath her, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t entertain the thought of having wings or the ability to breathe fire in addition.)

(Childish, she's aware. Yet, there could be people out there with these mutations. She'd have to inquire more into it.)

Whilst obsessing slightly over all of this, she can't help but wonder about what will happen - in a few years when these mutated brand of humans come into play. That's what the author of this study seems to think. One day mutants will be just as common as other men. Just how queer people will be of equal numbers and different races will be spread all over society in greater numbers. It sounds like a wonderful future, Peggy has to think; with all this difference in the world coming together and being treated by each other as such.

But then, Peggy has lived through The Second Great War and she knows, because of the woman who shares her bed now, what can happen if just one person can disagree with difference. And suddenly the future isn't harmony and equality, it's riots and burning and for the love of God, Peggy hopes that Angie never has to see any of it.

So between the choice of living in secret bliss or in open catastrophe, Peggy considers the way things are to be quite alright at the moment.

However, that doesn't mean she can sit idly by and wait for these things to come. She can protect herself and Angie sure, they're both well taught enough that they know that keeping their relationship, whatever it may be, a secret is the safest way. But what about when these mutants rise and fight for their right to be open, the men with angel wings and devil's horns who can't conceal themselves so they must fight to stay functioning in this society. What about when the aliens, when the other atmospheres come to invade. There must be something to protect everyone.

And that's why Peggy's spent her day leaning into the large, large sofa, reading through a stack of Howard's unusual books.

An organisation set on protecting the Earth from an all manner of things -- a peaceful organisation, that never terminates threats unless absolutely necessary. Peggy had heard of and seen enough people be killed for how many lifetimes the Earth has left in it. It has to end.

“Just for me to go back to work, I assume. Perhaps follow up on those drinks he asked me for,” Peggy sighs tiredly. One hand holds up her book -- it was a particularly riveting read about the Legend Of Thor’s Hammer -- and the other’s running through Angie’s hair. She’s curled up with Peggy on the sofa, a notebook and some charcoal in her hands, doodling. What? Peggy’s not allowed to know just yet.

“Are you gonna?”

Peggy smiles softly and looks up from her book. Angie has this smudge of charcoal against her cheek and her robe his falling open; she’s concentrated but she pulls away from her work to gaze at Peggy. Peggy finds herself gently rubbing the smudge from her cheek, “I don’t think so. Perhaps maybe a week or two in the future. I was serious about those projects though, they’re going to take some time.”

At this, Angie sits up a little straighter, and she’s giving Peggy this concerned, slightly frightened expression, “You’re not...You’re not looking for them, are you? Those Nazi guys? I mean, I know you’re tough and everythin’, English, but what they can do to a girl is…”

“As much as I would like to, Angie,” Peggy says. “I’ll be leaving them for a later date. Perhaps, I could create a department specifically for the slow, painful torture of those men.”

“Peg.”

And that frightened expression has grown. For the first time in forever, Angie looks scared of her. It shatters Peggy’s heart, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...I have a lot of anger built up and I just--”

Angie sighs, deeply, and yanks herself away from Peggy. She tosses her notebook and the charcoal down on the coffee table and walks away.

Peggy hears a door slam upstairs.

Closing her book over, Peggy shakes her head, “Stupid, idiot Carter.”

Peggy’s on her way to go and talk about this when the phone rings. She looks at it for a moment, considers it, before eventually she heaves a breath and picks it up.

“Hello?”

“ _Thank God, Carter._ ”

Peggy frowns, “Sousa? Why are you calling?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone so much that Peggy has to press if he’s still there, “ _It’s about your friend, roommate, Miss Martinelli. Peggy, she…_ ”

“Look, Agent Sousa, now isn’t exactly a good time---”

“ _She’s an Auschwitz survivor._ ”

And Peggy punches the wall.

“ _Carter? Are you okay? What was that?_ ”

A slow, steady breath, “I’m aware of what she’s been a victim of, Agent Sousa. Pray tell, why you thought to call me about this?”

Her knuckles are raw and he says, “ _I did some digging, Carter. There’s files on her from...Black triangle, asocial. But that’s not all. Peggy, she was there for a month, right? Just over? Look my German’s a bit rough but from what I can gather, Peg, they did so many tests on her. The type they’d do on the pink triangles, the ones...the ones to try and find a cure._ ”

Peggy inhales sharply. She’d figured as much, felt the little bumps of needle scars under her fingers. She’s still amazed that she could have missed all of Angie’s blemishes and scars before, Angie really is a remarkable actress. Peggy pinches the bridge of her nose as Sousa says, “ _Peggy if Thompson or anyone else found out that you were living with a queer, they’d have you both locked up before you could knock them out_.”

She doubts that, but he’s not lying about what they’d try to do. Peggy knows all about this, about how it was okay as long as you did it private, as long as there was no proof. As soon as there was evidence, you were carted away. Sick. Diseased.

“Burn the file, Daniel,” Peggy breathes out. “If you have any respect for me after what we’ve been through, you’ll burn it.”

“ _Already got my lighter,_ ” He says in an empty tone and Peggy has to lean against the table to brace herself. Her knuckles burn but she can just about manage a smile. “ _Just tell me one thing, Carter, is that why you blew me off?_ ”

Clearing her throat, Peggy says, “Would you prefer a lie or the truth?”

Silence after that, then, quietly, “ _Lie to me_.”

“I very much see myself marrying Jack Thompson and having many children with him before retiring to Ohio and dying of old age, which is why I declined your offer, Agent,” She says sarcastically with this coy grin on her face. A pause. “Thank you, Daniel, for protecting me like this.”

“ _You’re an amazing woman, Peg, the hero that the world needs_ ,” He sounds humoured. “ _The queer Captain America_.”

“I doubt I’m even a fraction like Captain Rogers, Daniel.”

“You know what they say, when a guy dies, his spirit goes to the one’s who loved him,” Sousa says and Peggy wipes her tears away before she has to admit that they’re there. “ _Take care of yourself, Carter_.”

“I’ll be sure to see you around.”

He hangs up and Peggy stands there for a moment listening to the long droning beep. Then it stops. And Peggy hears the slow, shaky sound of Angie’s breath. She says, “ _When I got there the first thing they did was take all my clothes and spray me with the burning hot water._ ” Peggy’s breath hitches. With the phone still to her ear, Peggy slides down the wall. Knees to her chest, she’s silent as Angie carries on. “ _It hurt a lot; remember that time that the jerk at the diner knocked your tea all over you? It was like that only it was all over and it was for so long. ‘s why I like cold showers so much. Then they took up to this room and cut our hair, gave us our uniforms and our numbers._

_One of the soldier guys, he was this real tall guy, he grabbed me by the arm and it hurt so bad, Peg, it hurt. But unluckily for him, I still had a bit of fight left in me so I kicked him somethin’ fierce. Took him to the ground, I did, Peg. Only they don’t...they never stayed down. After that was the first time I got beat up._

_I’m violets for you, Peg, and the thought that you...I know what your job is and I don’t care about that but the thought of you doin’ to someone what they did to me scares me somethin’ terrible. You gotta promise you’ll stay away from them, please. For me._ ”

Peggy can’t pretend she’s not crying this time. She’s knows that it’s wrong for her to be like this, it’s wrong for her to be on the floor with tears in her eyes. If Angie can go through all this and tell her about it, Peggy has to be strong too, she can’t cry. She’s not supposed to.

But she is. It’s breaking her everywhere because it’s Angie for Heaven’s sake. It’s Angie.

She chokes back a sob but Angie must hear it because the phone clicks off. It falls out of Peggy’s hands and it’s all she can do not to double over. She’s not meant to be like this. She’s the strong one. Peggy Carter: The Hero The World Deserves.

She doesn’t realise that she’s punching the wall, over and over, with both her fists until there’s hands over her wrists. Angie. Everywhere. Pressing into her.

Kissing her hair. Angie. “I got ya, Peggy, you’re okay.”

Peggy falls into her, a haphazard mess. Angie’s arms hold her tighter than she ever thought she needed.

They stay like that for the rest of the night.

She hadn’t felt like this since Steve died and Howard had found her rightfully _sloshed_ and pushing some dancer against the walls of a back alley. They’d argued and the dancer had fled, and eventually Peggy had buckled and fell into him.

But Angie wasn’t dead and Angie was holding her.

She’d be damned if she let her get away.

After a while, after her body stops shaking and she’s still against Angie’s chest, feeling nothing but both of their heartbeats, Peggy clenches her fist around Angie’s robe, nuzzles into her.

Angie kisses her head, Peggy feels her smiling, “Come on, English, let’s go get dinner. You want pizza? I can make pizza so good it’ll have that Chicago deep dish weepin’.”

Peggy chuckles, all watery and tired, and nods against Angie’s chest, “I’d like that, I think. But could we stay here for a while longer, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“None at all, sweet cheeks.”

She’d be damned.


End file.
